


Speak Not

by iodhadh



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Post-Demands of the Qun, Tal-Vashoth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 07:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11375214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iodhadh/pseuds/iodhadh
Summary: Agents with hushed tones. Eyes stinging, forms to fill out, course corrections, reduce risk of similar losses. I remember the little boy, too wise, eager to help. Words break in small secret spaces. He got away. He got away.





	Speak Not

**Author's Note:**

  * For [taispeantas_laethuil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taispeantas_laethuil/gifts).



> Remember when I took a whole bunch of prompts in December last year and then only filled one of them? Yeah, me neither.
> 
> This is for Emma, who asked for Bull's Tama learning he'd gone Tal-Vashoth. The nicknames Ashkost and Reth are borrowed from one of her fics.

The first indication that something is wrong is the presence of the two men in the head Tamassran’s rooms. They are visible through the open door, sitting at a respectful distance across from her on the mats, conferring with her in hushed tones while she works at her reports.

If that were all, it would not be significant. People come often to confer with the Tamassrans, from the Ariqun, from Seheron, from all sectors of the Qun. But something about the way these men hold themselves, the restlessness of their hands, the tense line of her neck—Ashkost is familiar with the signs. These men are Ben-Hassrath.

She cannot allow herself to linger, though, despite the sudden, incongruous pit of worry in her stomach. She has her imekari to tend to, their lessons not yet done for the day. And so she resolves to put it out of her mind: if it has to do with her, she will know soon enough, after all.

Forty-five minutes later, when one of the Ben-Hassrath appears in the doorway of her classroom, she knows that was a mistake.

“You will practice your letters,” she says to her imekari. “Taashath, you will supervise. Help the young ones with their questions.”

She gets to her feet as the girl she named scrambles to fetch the slates and chalk, her shoulders taut with pride at having been so chosen. Ashkost turns from them, settling her mind as she makes her way to the door—slowly, heavily, favouring the hip that has started to stiffen up when she sits too long in one position. She is no longer as young as she was.

She waits until she has slid the door closed before she speaks. “Shanedan, Ben-Hassrath,” she says. “Is there some trouble?”

They are both standing there: one tall, silver-skinned, with heavy curling horns and long white hair in a braid down his back; one viddathari, an elf, dark-skinned like the people of Rivain and the natives of the islands. “A report, only,” says the taller of the two, “and an admonition. You must make course corrections.”

Ashkost casts her mind back, struggling to think of what she can have done that the Ben-Hassrath would send someone to admonish her personally. There is nothing. “Has someone reported me?” she says, her voice carefully neutral.

The man snorts faintly, gesturing to his companion, and the viddathari steps forward to hand her a packet of papers. “One of your imekari has gone Tal-Vashoth,” he says. His mouth is a grim twist. “He was Hissrad. Now he is nothing.”

For a moment, it is like the world has gone silent around Ashkost’s ears. _Struggle is an illusion_ , her mind echoes, absurdly. _The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against_.

But for Hissrad, there had been. He had always been too big, too much, for the roles the Qun would have of him. Too gentle for the Ben-Hassrath, too calculating for the Tamassrans, too good at fighting to be kept from Seheron, too dedicated to the Qun to turn away even when it meant the breaking of him.

He is not the only imekari she has seen become Hissrad, but there can be no question in her mind of who they are referring to. Her own little Ashkaari, now grown and not so little and not at all hers anymore.

She takes the papers. “Thank you,” she says. Her voice is utterly serene; she can allow it nothing else. “I will review the forms carefully and make adjustments as the Qun requires of me.”

They nod to her, curt, businesslike; their duty discharged, they may now go about their way. “Panahedan, Tamassran,” says the taller of them, and then they turn and stride off down the hall, leaving her to return to her classroom.

She allows herself only one glance at the files, and there, at the top: the identification number she has seen on a hundred reports delivered to her, on a thousand files written out by her own hand. Yes, it is her Ashkaari. He who once had hunted Tal-Vashoth, who had felt his control fracturing and turned himself in to the Vidathiss of his own volition rather than go down that path himself, has fled the Qun, never to return.

Carefully, Ashkost sets her thoughts aside. She is a Tamassran; she cannot be compromised by this knowledge. It is a failure, only. A mistake she must make up for; a course to be corrected, as she was told. That is all it can be.

She takes the papers to her quarters, setting them in a tidy pile next to her pallet, and returns to her classroom to check on Taashath’s progress with the young ones. It has gone well, as she expected; the girl is a good teacher, gentle and firm by turns, seeming to know exactly when to apply pressure and exactly where a patient hand is needed. She will make a fine Tamassran one day. She has the instinct that cannot be taught.

Ashkost moves through the day calmly, her every motion poised, her every word precisely correct. The other Tamassrans say nothing to her—nothing out of the ordinary—but she can feel their silent sympathy, the pity behind some faces and the disgust hiding in others. Reth squeezes her shoulder briefly in passing as they herd the imekari into the common hall for the evening meal, but that is all she can dare; the others do not give even that much. They keep their distance, wary of infection—either perceived or real.

She lets herself feel nothing until well after sundown, after all the imekari have gone to bed and the Tamassrans are gathered in their private hall for the evening’s tea and a quiet talk. Ashkost does not join them tonight; instead, she goes to her quarters, lights the lamp, and turns to face that unassuming packet of papers sitting by her bed.

Her eyes prickle as she begins leafing through the forms, and for a moment she almost does not recognize the sting of tears. She reads the account of Ashkaari’s defection with growing horror, picking out what spare details the Ben-Hassrath has seen fit to give her—a dreadnought, the Inquisition, a mercenary company calling themselves The Iron Bull’s Chargers—

She has to press her fingers to her lips to stifle a sob at that. Her Ashkaari always did love too easily.

She remembers him as he was, young, clever, so good at soothing hurts, and the sorrow in her heart when she had written the report recommending him for the Ben-Hassrath, and that Tamassran’s instinct she had noted in Taashath that Ashkaari also had—and she looks down at the forms in her hands and for a moment all she can think is: _he got away. He got away_.

They will send assassins, she knows. They always send someone, and when the one who was lost is one of their own—

Still, Ashkaari is strong and clever and very well-trained. That was why he went to the Ben-Hassrath in the first place. So they will send assassins, but she will choose to have hope regardless.

That moment is all she can allow herself. She steadies her breathing, in and out, just as the tide, and when she puts pen to paper her hand is steady and there is no trace of tremor in her words. She fills out the forms. She answers for Ashkaari. She submits herself for assessment, and signs an agreement to send whatever documents and reports she is asked for. She notes where she went wrong and what she will do to correct it. And when she has filled in the last space on the last page, she sets the packet aside, cleans her pen, blows out the lamp, and goes to bed.


End file.
